Many of the major struggles we deal with as adults are internal. And they surround the perpetual identity crisis the “adult experience” turns out to be. Some of our worst demons reveal themselves to be a major part of our identity.
In the back of my mind the grind stays in line Read More
Shows up on time
Thick sludge slime drips off ass it goes by
No life, it chases faceless cries
Whines stalking hated ties through crooked lies
It takes or it dries
Created illusions for desperate tries
Feeling asleep still hoping to die
Never real, but always alive
Never bad, but always a crime
Chiming the rhymes of evil
Slides off the tongue perceiving
Fires burn the homes
Screeching iron melting down
Reaching into hollow grounds
Spinning, churning, twisting round
Molten lava leaking out
The creaking shack is splintered, brown
No sneaking in without a sound
The bleak still ring it sings resound
Trapped inside with screams and shouts
Rotted corpses stand about
Mules and horses on propaganda routs
Burnt alive behind the eyes
To all the rest I stand here fine
There is mystery behind not knowing what words come next when hand writing. More difficult to come by when typing. The slow paced nature of writing by hand leaves mystery to uncover, even for the writer.
There’s a pleasant seduction behind the ink of a pen. Something about not knowing how long until “the surprise” or “the point” lands on the page is alluring. Even knowing where the work will go isn’t enough. The casually paced process is designed to gradually expose.
An arousing lust, flirty and curious for the next words, drives the ideas forward. As if it smiles back tempting possibilities and teasing wants. A sexy little dance, while motionless, wiggles in the back of one’s mind as a playful draw for more proceeds.
Biting a lip, dragging the pen across the page with delicate hands to guide purpose with care. Ever-so-gentle and crafted a letter at a time, the love filled spiral of intrigued pries. Digging up the fertile soil in search of seeds. Fascinated by the limitless capacity of imagination.
Turned on by the reckless direction, starved and animalistic.
A raw, dangerous and unpredictable monster dressed in ink is the hand written narrative. Read More
...The ache, lustful with ideas.
Entertained by perpetual “What iffing.”
Once the curtain lifts the show never ends.
It’s who they are forever.
But there is no way to teach this.
There’s no way to explain it.
It has to be witnessed to be understood.
To be experienced.
You had to be there.
The best that can be done is to live what’s been earned.
One day, at least one will want what’s been learned.
When they see what’s brought to the table.
Only then will they follow.
They’ll imitate and in doing so they’ll learn, understand and realize it’s all hallow.
And it’ll turn me on.
Make these ideas more effable for the experiencee.
Make the experiencee more F-able to me.
Orgasmic in nature. Read More
Being present during the realization period of an individual is better than sex.
To watch profound ignorance be lifted.
Exchanged for clarity and awareness.
It’s hard to explain.